The Potluck Club
Page 32
He opened one eye. Across the room on a scarred table, his gerbils, Woodward and Bernstein, lay wrapped around each other as though they were one. Nearby, his laptop sat at attention, the screen saver banner sliding across its face, teasing him.
Clay Whitefield, it said. Ace Reporter.
He’d worked last night until the early hours of the morning—thus his attempt at sleeping in. The big story of his career had kept him up, driving him toward a completion he feared would never come. This story—this single story—had tickled his imagination when he was a child, encouraged him to do well when he’d gone off to the University of Northern Colorado to study journalism, and propelled him back to his hometown upon graduation.
It was the story of a group of women who called themselves the Potluck Club. But it was more than their monthly gatherings that kept his fingers to the keyboard and his pen and notebook in an ever-ready position. It was their past secrets and current escapades.
It was, most particularly, their youngest member.
Because Clay Whitefield believed with everything his journalistic heart had in it that Donna Vesey was carrying the deepest secret of them all.
Don’t miss what’s brewing in the next Potluck Club book, coming Summer 2006